


Knock First

by La_Llorona



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Horror, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Monster of the Week, Possibly Pre-Slash, Pre-Series, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 02:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4122865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Llorona/pseuds/La_Llorona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Where are you going, Linda?"...But nobody was behind her. There was nobody else in the house...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Babysitters start dropping dead after receiving mysterious phone calls, and with all the other hunters out of town, teenage Sam and Dean Winchester decide to handle the case themselves. But Dean knows it's gonna be hell trying to survive the night, protect the kids, and battle the stupid hormones that are raging between wanting to fuck his girlfriend Jo and wanting his own geek brother...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knock First

Just her luck. They didn’t have the kind of coffee she liked. She closed the cupboard, leaned on the fridge with all its multi-colored magnets and smiley-faced drawings. Linda was having a bad enough day as it was, and she really regretted taking over babysitting duty for Julie. Sure, that’s what friends are for. Sure, Linda’s boyfriend broke up with her after having some emotional breakdown. Sure, she needed something to take her mind off all of that…

_The street outside was a study in perception, with all the reflections from the kitchen blending right into it. There was this one white streetlamp light squinting at Linda, and the rain was only visible in its glow._

…But, after spending six hours with four sticky, drippy-nosed kids, she needed a break.

Bad coffee wasn’t that kind of break.

_The street outside was a study in perception, and Linda turned away from it._

She grabbed a plastic packet of cookies from this cardboard box they had lying around on the counter. The kitchen was cramped—more like a kitchenette. One with a splotchy ceiling and hinges on the doorframe but no door. She could see straight into the living room, but the kids weren’t in there anyway. They were in bed finally. It took at least an hour to get them there.

She ripped open the little packet and almost dropped a cookie, hopping up on the counter. She hated sleeping in other people’s houses. Just wanted the night to be over.

And then the phone rang, the one on the wall right near her head, and she thought, _hey, maybe Jenna’s coming home early._ Jenna, the mom of the kids and Linda’s potential savior.

She tossed the cookies into the rusty sink, stickered with crumbs. Picked up the phone and said, “Hello?” in a smooth, casual way that suggested she was having the easiest, breeziest time of her life.

“How’s your boyfriend?”

It wasn’t Jenna.

It sounded nothing like Jenna.

“Um,” Linda managed. “Can I take a message? I’m the babysitter.”

“Why’d you let Julie talk you into this? Ruining your whole night?”

“What? I’m sorry. Who’s this? Do I know you?”

“Where are you going, Linda?”

She dropped the phone onto the receiver and got off the counter, rubbing her hands on her jeans. They felt prickly, her hands, tingling. Her throat clamped up, and she had her back to the wall because that’s the only place to have your back to when someone’s behind you.

But nobody was behind her. There was nobody else in the house. She touched her chest, as if that would make her heart calm down.

_The streetlamp blinked off._

Linda reached her arm out, not letting her back off the wall, and picked up the phone again lightly. It could poison her skin. Couldn’t it? No. Hah. Course not.

The voice still wasn’t Jenna’s.

“Have you checked on the kids?”

She dropped the phone onto the floor and got out of that kitchen fast as she could. The scuffed-up floors were rising and falling like mini waves, keeping her from the stairway. No, that wasn’t happening. Course not. She took the steps quickly, almost falling, too many toys scattered around.

“Jason!” she yelled. “Katie!” Those were all the names she could remember.

Their room was off the staircase, and she barged right into it.

_Kids,_ Star Wars _poster, window, streetlamp, shadow, crack, scream, choke…_

Everybody hates dying in other people’s houses.

 

_It’s freaky how Dean knew exactly what Sam was doing in the next room over. Every damned little thing. The kid was leaning over his textbook, which’d be on the table right about then. He always had to spread all his fucking stuff out on the table instead of holding his book on his lap and relaxing on a couch with his feet up. Sam was a professional asshole for a thirteen-year-old. He’d had that textbook on the table_ just as surely as Dean had his hand up Jo’s shirt. _And Sam had his elbows on the table, reading intensely. The lamp would be on and so would that one bulb left in the ceiling fan. There would be papers, notes, pencils arranged neatly around the book. Sam might’ve had a drink nearby but never a snack. It was like the guy was on an eternal diet. Screwed-up._

Jo wouldn’t let Dean’s hand down her pants. That was too far too soon. But he liked kissing her. She tasted good, didn’t wear lipstick at all. Her hair was thin and slid smoothly through Dean’s fingers, her curls looping around his wrist every once in a while. They were on the bed, pressed up against each other, ram-rod straight. She never curled a leg over his hip or squeezed one between both of his. They just lay there, pressed against each other like that. Sometimes it was boring as hell, but it was much safer than hell. It was nice that way.

_Dean could hear Sam turning a page from a mile away._

He kissed Jo softer that time, but longer. He fingered her bra strap, felt a couple of zits on her back. Those little human imperfections were cool, they were cute. _Sometimes Dean saw scratches on Sammy’s back, but never zits. He never felt Sammy’s back, of course, but he had eyes to see._ He almost undid her bra strap but wondered if that would be overstepping some kind of tough-chic boundary too. Sometimes, he missed being a free man. Picking up whores in bars where he wasn’t supposed to be till he was twenty-one.

Before Dean could do a single damn thing, Jo rolled over, reached down under the bed, got something out from under it—a newspaper? Really?—and shoved the stupid thing in his face.

“Seriously? Way to kill a mood, Jo.”

“Just read it.”

Dean sighed, sat up on his elbow. He snatched the paper away from her and let his eyes go automatically to the weird section.

“Six babysitters in the last two weeks, huh?”

“All the same neighborhood. All the same incident basically.” Jo sat up too. She had a Route 66 t-shirt on.

“Haunted telephone?” Dean smirked.

She whipped her hair into a tight, smart little ponytail. “Very funny.”

“Okay, haunted _something.”_ Dean tossed the paper to the floor. “I’ll talk to Dad about it when he gets back.”

Dad, Ellen, Bill—they were all outta town, hunting some djinn. Maybe they’d be back in a week or so. It wasn’t supposed to be a tough case, and Dad’d want to hear about that new one pronto.

“You don’t have to bother him with it.” Jo said it with a light shrug, and Dean already knew what was comin’ next. “We’ll just…” She eased off the bed, making it jiggle a little under Dean’s weight. “…handle it ourselves, save them some time…”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No. Dad said we’ve gotta stay here, stay outta trouble, watch out for Sammy. That’s exactly what I plan on doin.’”

“So we’ll let six _more_ babysitters die in the meantime. Very smart.”

“This isn’t about them. This’s about you wantin’ to prove yourself to your mom. Nope. I’m not letting any of us get hurt for somethin’ like that.”

Jo raised an eyebrow as if she was challenging him. Challenging him to do what? She picked the newspaper up off the ratty carpet, walked to the door, pulling it open, going right on out into the living room. So much for fun times.

“Sam!” she called, kinda sweet-like.

“Come on,” Dean groaned. He had to get up and wrench his shirt back on to follow her.

“Do you wanna come on a hunt with us?” Jo was already asking Sammy by the time Dean got to them. _Yep, Sam was bent over his textbook with all the pencils and notes crowding around him._

“Aren’t we not allowed to—“

“Yes, exactly, thank you, Sam. We’re not allowed to,” Dean butted in.

“I didn’t say no yet, Dean.”

“I’m sayin’ no for you.”

Jo was already walking back toward the bedroom. No, toward a telephone—what for? Not sure. She started talking. “I’m going with or without you.”

“C’mon, Ellen’ll skin my hide if you get hurt.”

“She’s your _girlfriend_ and you’re more worried about Ellen skinning your hide than her safety?” Sam said, being his bitchy little self.

“You know what I mean,” Dean snapped out.

“I honestly don’t care what you’re worried about,” Jo said. “I’m worried about getting the job done.” She was hefting a phonebook from that shelf. “Scratch that. I’m not worried about anything, ‘cause I can get the job done just like any other hunter.”

“You’re fucking fifteen years old.”

“You’re fucking seventeen years old, big difference.”

“Exactly! And I haven’t even been on a solo hunt yet.”

“It wouldn’t be solo,” Sam said, “if she took us with her.”

“You stay out of this.”

Jo had the phone pressed to her ear all of a sudden. Her voice was all chipper instead of snippy when she spoke into it.

“Yeah, hello? Hi! My name’s Jo Harvelle, and I was wondering about this babysitting job offer…”

 

So, yeah, basically Dean was squeezed into disobeying Dad by his lousy girlfriend and lame-ass brother. Awesome. Speaking of his lame-ass brother, he still hadn’t eaten dinner, and Dean wouldn’t let him starve, no matter how much Sam insisted he wasn’t starving, wasn’t even hungry.

“How do you feel about…Chef Boyardee? See the guy on the can? He looks pretty damned happy about this stuff.”

Sam rolled his eyes like the emo teenager he thought he was now entitled to be. “You’re gonna be eating half of it anyway.”

“Nah, I’ll shove it down your throat.” Dean gave a signature grin and cracked the can open at the same time.

Sam was still at the table with all his studying junk. Jo was right over there in the living room, making more babysitting calls. She was trying to find one for the next night, ‘cause she was just that damn efficient.

Dean was getting the food into the microwave when Sam mumbled, “I can make my own dinner, you know.”

“Oh, really? Then how come you weren’t doin’ it?”

“I didn’t feel like it. But if I _did,_ you know I could.”

“Well, prove it next time. You’ve gotta walk the walk, man.”

“I do! All the time. You and Dad treat me like a little kid anyway.”

“’Cause you got mood swings like this one.” Dean came up behind Sam’s chair and stole his textbook away from him, ‘cause yeah, it’d drive Sam nuts and he felt like doing that.

“Hey!”

Dean laughed and stood up on the chair next to Sam’s, holding the textbook high, out of his little brother’s reach. Sam was standing up on his own chair then, but of course he couldn’t reach. Wishful thinking.

“Come on, Dean, knock it off!”

“Not until you’re taller than me.” Dean winked and jumped off the chair, shoving the textbook at Sam, who pounded it down on the table a second after and launched himself at Dean’s back.

“Whoa, hey!” Dean yelled. He tripped for one second before catching himself, but then Sam, the little bastard, covered Dean’s eyes with his hands. They both went sprawling onto the speckled tile in this mass of limbs. Sam was punching Dean’s shoulder, and Dean was throwing him off, let him crash into the empty china cabinet they had standing there for no good reason. This was a rental house, after all. Somebody must’ve taken their china with them when they decided the place (and the furniture) wasn’t good enough for them anymore.

Dean was getting to his feet when Sam latched his foot around his ankle and brought him down again. Dean let Sam come over and pin him to the floor, ‘cause sometimes you gotta let the younger one have the cheap shot. It boosted confidence and all, even if Dad would tell him it would hurt Sam in the long run. Never go easy on him. But Dean kind of liked seeing that triumphant look on Sam’s face as it hovered over Dean’s. His brother’s hair—way too long, looked like a girl—was falling around his face. The dim light was all accumulating around his head and neck and shoulders like a drippy gray halo. The microwave was giving off long beeps, and Sam’s birthmarks stood out sharply against his soft skin. His knees were pushing uncomfortably into Dean’s thighs, but the weight of Sam was familiar, bony knees and all.

“You guys okay in there?”

Jo…

“Yeah, we’re good!” Dean finally pushed Sam off. “Hey, Mr. Make-My-Own-Dinner, why don’t you get that outta the microwave?”

Sam looked pretty happy to do it, the weirdo.

Dean went into the living room to sit down and sling his arm around Jo’s shoulders. He asked her about the babysitting thing for the damn case.

“Yep, I found a good one. Tomorrow night, five o’clock. The mom will be gone all night. It’s perfect.” She nudged Dean. “Told you I could do it.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He kissed her anyway.

_Dean could hear Sam dropping a spoon from a mile away. He wanted to make his own dinner and ended up dropping a spoon? Oh well, if it made him feel better._ Dean pulled Jo onto his lap. Her weight was familiar, but not _as_ familiar. They didn’t get a TV in there, so she was gonna have to put aside the tough-chic thing for a few minutes and entertain him. _It sounded like Sam’d found a new spoon. If it made him feel like Dean wasn’t_ always _treating him like a little kid, then okay._ The phone got in the way when he and Jo tried to spread out on the couch. Awkward. _Dean felt awkward. He felt bad about Sam getting all annoyed when he talked to him like was little when Dean’d sometimes think about what must’ve been getting big between Sam’s legs by now. Awkward. It hurt, it made his skin hot. Everything tense up._

“Hey, relax,” Jo was saying. “It’s gonna be fine, you’ll see.”

“Yeah…guess I will.”

His lips felt so numb.

 

All the light in the room was coming from that one shaded lamp near Sam’s side of the bed. Their room was about the size of one and a half janitor closets, and Dean really hated thinking about it that way, because school comparisons of any kind made him cringe. To hell with school, he’d probably be dropping out that year anyway.

Sam, on the other hand, was being a bookworm as always. Jesus, wasn’t he just reading at the dinner table? He was reading again in bed, and Dean didn’t even care what the title was. He sort of wanted Sam to talk to him, but no matter how many times Dean pelted Sam with some M&M’s, the kid wouldn’t even glance his way. He gave an irritated snort every now and again, which was at least a little bit satisfying.

“Sam. Sammy. Think fast.” He tossed another candy at Sam’s face. “Dude, you were supposed to catch it in your mouth. We need to work on your reflexes.”

“Why don’t you go sleep with Jo?”

“He speaks!”

“Well? Why don’t you?” He still wasn’t looking at Dean. Opted for turning a crisp page instead.

“’Cause she’s actin’ like a prude, that’s why. But I can bet she’s had it up the ass at least three times in her life.”

Sam finally slapped the book shut, but it didn’t look like he was in much of a chatting mood. Instead, he switched the lamp off in a heartbeat and started hunkering down under the twisted-up sheets.

Dean popped another M&M into his mouth. Listened to Sam breathing. It was as if he could hit a pillow and boom—lights out. It was never like that for Dean, who had to think up some pretty, imaginary scenario that would lull him to sleep or play an endless Metallica concert in his mind or imagine his mom singing “Hey, Jude” nice and slow. All he could see was Sam’s outline, but he already knew every line, every curve of his brother’s body. Dean shoved a whole handful of M&M’s down his throat. Didn’t want to settle down to sleep.

It was rare when they got rental houses like that one. It was kind of nice having more than one room and a bathroom. But Dean was used to the seedy motels they frequented, the cheesy wallpaper and starburst clocks. He was used to coming back from a hunt, scabbed and caked in blood, thrusting off jackets and boots, rifles, shot-guns, crucifixes, bottles of holy water. Some of it would get pushed into a corner and some of it had to be taken back out to the Impala. Dean would usually volunteer to do that. The cold night air didn’t bother him at all, and he’d usually let Dad have the first shower, or Sam if Sam decided to whine about it. A lot of the time, they’d both let Dad take it and they’d just sit on one of the beds for a while, watch some television. Whatever was on. Medical shows, cartoons, dramas, sitcoms, even boring documentaries that Sam liked. _Sam shifted on the bed, and Dean could see his shirt ruck up, thought about his brother’s sharp hipbone._ There was this one night when Dad had a lot of wounds to clean in the bathroom, some to stitch up. Dean offered to help, but Dad said no and told him to get Sammy somethin’ to eat. So, yeah, Dean did. He went out and bought a couple brownies from the nearest 7-Eleven, not too far away. They were real good brownies—crispy edges, crummy on the inside, chocolate-y all throughout.

It was the middle of the night and they only got a couple channels. Dean couldn’t even remember where the hell they’d been at the time, what town, what state. But, yeah, they only got a couple channels, so they left it on some kiddie show about a girl with a pet dragon, and they made fun of it and laughed together, and Dean watched the craggy, brownish scratch around Sam’s mouth curve when he smiled wide. Curve like an extra dimple. _Sam never smiled in his sleep. He wasn’t talking in his sleep either, never did. Dean just listened to his breathing and ate more M &M’s._

Dean could hardly remember what the shower was like that night. He took a really quick one after Sam, and then gotten into bed with him. Dad was already out cold in the bed beside theirs. Sam was already asleep by the time Dean slipped in with him, or he at least looked like he was asleep. Sam had this annoying habit of sprawling, taking up all the space on the bed, and Dean had to peel Sam’s arm away from the sheets to get down on the bed himself. He let Sam’s arm flop across his own chest. It was normal, natural, typical. Their limbs usually ended up tangled in each other to the point where it was easy to forget whose was whose. They’d usually end up pressed against each other in a different way than Jo and Dean’d been earlier that night. When Dean and Sam got pressed against each other, Sam was usually half on top of Dean, that bony knee of his caught between Dean’s legs, the blankets hanging off them both, looking neglected. Sometimes his arm would be caught under the pillow, brushing Dean’s ear. One of Sam’s arms might be tucked between his own chest and Dean’s.

On the brownie night, Dean woke up with Sam just completely on top of him, and there was no real explanation for that. Their hips were ground together and Dean’s legs were spread enough for Sam’s slim body to fit between them. Dean’s groggy mind was barely registering anything except his own hard-on pushing into Sam’s stomach and how horribly wrong that was. _He scooted away from Sam, getting the last of the M &M’s through his lips and crumpling up the baggie._ He scooted away from Sam as carefully as possible, trying not to wake him. Dean made his way to the bathroom, glad to see Dad still asleep, but kinda wincing at how sore he felt. He locked the bathroom door behind himself and folded into the bathtub to calm his body the hell down and pretend to himself that, y’know, it didn’t happen. ‘Cause if Dad and Sam didn’t know it happened, then it didn’t happen.

_He could remember going out and getting McDonald’s for everybody that same morning. It was all real normal, as normal as their lives could get._

So, now Dean got out of the room pretty cautiously, trying not to disturb Sammy. He made his way across the living room like a ghost, all hush-hush, and collapsed onto the sofa. He was just getting comfortable there when Jo’s bedroom door squeaked open.

“What the hell are you doing on the couch?”

“Sam’s takin’ up the whole bed.”

She did this short, partial-sigh-thing. “Get in here.” She might’ve nodded to her pitch-black doorway.

Jo didn’t have to tell Dean twice, and they ended up in that cozy bed together, not touching, not even a sliver of skin brushing. It was nothing like sleeping with Sam, when their limbs ended up tangled each and every time.

Nah, they were on opposite sides of that bed.

 

They were all at Denny’s that night, babysitting night, ‘cause you can never hunt monsters on an empty stomach. At least not in Dean’s book. Maybe in Sam’s. Sam’d wanted to order something real light—a chicken salad?—so Dean ordered for him instead, couldn’t let that the poor kid starve. ‘Course, Dean was awarded with the evil eye for all his generosity, but screw it. He had a big ole platter of food and wasn’t going to enjoy it any less, in spite of Sam’s moods.

Jo was just picking at her fried shrimp as she droned on and on about exactly what they were gonna do and exactly when they were gonna do it. Dean felt like he was listening to a teacher prepping him for the most convoluted test of his natural born life. Eyes were starting to droop. He glanced over at Sam, sitting beside him, outlined by the headlights flashing by outside the window. Yep, he looked as confused as Dean. What was wrong with this woman?

Dean put down his thick, greasy sandwich, swallowed, chased it with soda. “You wanna be a hunter, sweetheart? Hunters improvise.”

She looked at him like he was Homer Simpson or something. “We can’t go in there half-assed.”

“We can’t go in there tryin’ to remember everything from Step One to Step One Hundred.”

“But—“

“This’s what we do.” He checked on Sam for a second, just to make sure he was eating. “We bring weapons. We salt the windows. Doors too. We take care of the Rugrats ‘till we A—get a phone call, or B—hear a bump in the night. Got that?”

Jo was pinching that shrimp a little too aggressively between her fingers. Maybe she thought it was like voodoo: if she squeezed its little body hard enough, it would transfer the pain to Dean’s neck.

“Got that?” he repeated.

She plastered on this reality TV smile. “Got it.”

“You okay, Sammy? You’re quiet.”

“’M fine.”

“You wanna go home?”

When Sam brushed a shock of hair away from his eyes, some ketchup got stuck there. Dean considered telling him about it, but that’d make it less funny. “I’m not scared, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Sammy answered, y’know, eventually.

“You sure? There might be…” Dean made room for a dramatic pause. “…clowns on little Jimmy’s wallapaper.”

Sam stabbed his shoulder with a fork for that one. Stabbed a couple more times before Dean took up his own fork to combat Sam’s, making it a full-on dinnerware duel.

He could see Jo out of the corner of his eye, trying to look annoyed. Yeah, she couldn’t. Her eyes were laughing it up.

He remembered how beautiful she was when she just smiled a bit and thought maybe he could do this after all.

 

 

There were only two kids and the mom looked like she was trying to survive the Holocaust. Christ, some people didn’t know how good they had it. Sure, the house was a little on the shabby side. Cramped. The floor was barely visible under all the toys and coloring books and Legos. The ceiling was low, claustrophobic, like a bat cave and not the comic book kind.

One kid—Cam she said?—was jumping up and down behind Dean. He had jelly smeared on his face and was holding this glob of Play-Doh. Probably wanted Mommy Dearest to take a look at his newest creation. The other kid was a little older and sat slumped on the couch like someone who genuinely hated his life. It reminded Dean of how Sam would sometimes sit.

That baggy-eyed mom was giving Jo a ton of instructions, and Dean could see his girl making a list on this chunky notepad she brought along. Such a perfectionist that it was cute bordering on annoying.

When the mom finally left to God-only-knew-where, taking her coat and hat with her, Dean plucked the notepad out of Jo’s pretty hands and dumped it in the kitchen’s flip-lid trashcan.

“What are you doing?” she shouted at him.

_Dean brushed past Sammy on his way to the television._ He found the remote, switched the set on and saw Couch Potato Kid’s eyes light up a little. Maybe he wasn’t allowed to watch TV much? Oh well. “Look, Jo. I know how to handle kids. I practically raised that one.” He pointed at Sam, who gave him one of those patented eye-rolls. “Okay!” Dean tossed the remote, clapped his hands together. “Everybody gather ‘round—it’s movie night. Jo’s making snacks, Sammy’s gonna get some sheets, blankets, pillows, a couple chairs…”

Sam got the hint and left. Jo looked severely suspicious but went to the kitchen anyway. Least she knew who was boss. Some of the time. A quarter of the time.

Jelly-Face was being trouble. Seemed like he was on a sugar high, and Dean had to round him up before he made the walls look like his stained mouth. Dean made sure to compliment the stupid Play-Doh masterpiece, y’know, butter the kid up before sending him to the couch. _The Goonies_ was playing on a random channel. That was always a good movie for kid boys. Dean left it there, turned the volume way up.

Sam came jogging up with a mound of bedspreads and floppy pillows. He forgot the chairs, so Dean carried those out of the kitchen, where Jo was workin.’ Once the chairs were arranged in front of the TV, Sam and Dean started draping them with sheets. Yeah, they had two chairs facing each other and put a sheet over it as a makeshift tent. The kids started complaining that they were blocking the screen, so Dean told them to get their asses over here and set up fort.

The kids gathered the blankets and pillows and escaped into the tent. Sam made sure the sheet was pushed back enough for them to see the TV.

Just for the heck of it, Dean set up another tent nearby while waiting for Jo to come in with the snacks. Yeah, there she was, carrying a big plate of Chips Ahoy! and milk and peanut butter crackers too.

Dean took a couple, shoveled them into his mouth and then took them into the kids’ tent. _Sam was sitting on the couch’s armrest, looking perfect._ The kids told Dean to get out of their fort after about two minutes, so he watched Jo take a bag of salt from the duffle. She snuck away to get all the windows and doors protected. _Sam wasn’t on the armrest anymore? Oh, there was his sneaker sticking out from the extra tent._

“Keep an eye on the kids!” Jo shouted from a different room while Dean crawled inside the tent with Sammy.

“It’s been a while,” said Sam—lying down, arms folded behind his head, legs stretched out casual-like. Dean got down beside him.

“Hell, yeah. Remember Bobby’s face when he saw one of these things in his living room? Called us idjits.”

“He calls everybody idjits, Dean.”

“Yeah, but _especially_ us.” Dean smiled.

The Goonies _was mumbling on outside the borders of their world. Dean numbly wished they had some of those snacks. It was just a natural thing to wish, though he wasn’t hungry at all. Sam’s legs were getting long, and part of Dean was hopin’ to God Sam didn’t pass him up in height. The other part was thinking it wouldn’t be so bad. Strange combination._

Dean shouted to Jo. “How’s it goin,’ honey?”

“Just fine, sweetie!” She said “sweetie” like it was a curse.

Sam was smirking over at Dean, so Dean winked at him.

“So you and Jo are gonna get married someday?”

The question came out of nowhere, and Dean wondered for a second, did he hear Sam right? _He was crossing one long leg over the other—Dean wanted to push them both apart._ Seriously, what kinda question was that?

“That’s a long way off, man. Real long.”

“You’re seventeen.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a lotta life left to live. Unless we die tonight, of course.” Sam stiffened up. _Dean wanted to rub his shoulder._ “You _are_ scared.”

“Am not.”

But even those two, snarky words sounded pretty hollow. He switched gears without even thinking about it. “I’m gonna take care of you. Like I always do.”

“I know.” He said it nicely. No snark. “But if it comes down to it…” Sam half-smiled. “Save your future wife first.”

_I can’t, I couldn’t._

Dean was smiling back without even thinking about it. He wondered vaguely if Sam could see how robotic the action was. “Nothin’ bad’s gonna happen to _either_ of you. Not on my watch.”

They listened to _The Mummy_ for a while. Could kind of imagine the scenes playing in their heads—at least, Dean knew he could. Guessed Sam could too. _He could guess almost everything there was to guess about Sam, except maybe how long it would take to get him to come._

If Dean wasn’t a hunter through and through, he might’ve jumped at the knock. It came all of a sudden, a _rap-ra-ra-rap_ to the door, a damned perfect beat.

Jo called dryly from down the hall, “Can you get that, sweetie?”

Dean made a gun-to-head motion, cracked a smile from Sam before hightailing it out of that tent. The kids were already asleep? Looked that way. Wow, yeah, _The Goonies_ was almost over. Dean could spend a lot of time muddling through his own sick—not sick—thoughts.

The floors were carpeted, which was great, ‘cause then they wouldn’t creak. Dean made it to the door silently and squinted an eye into the peephole. Nobody there. Nothing as far as he could tell.

It didn’t even take a glance over the shoulder for Dean to know that Sam was outta the tent. He turned around anyway and studied Sam’s _Nobody there?_ face.

Dean shrugged in a _guess not_ gesture.

Sam was mouthing the words, “I’ll check the back,” and Dean gave him the _you be careful_ expression that Sammy would pick up on in a flat instant. Jesus, Sam flipped Dean the bird over his shoulder, and Dean almost cracked up. Not the time for that. Checked the peephole again. Still nobody, damn it.

Maybe Jo had _some_ scrap of hunter instinct in here, ‘cause she came down right then. Dean whispered for her to take the kids upstairs and keep ‘em quiet.

“How do I do that?”

“Tell them we’re all playing a game.”

“What kind of game?”

“Make somethin’ up,” he hissed. “Some quiet, lights-off kinda game.”

“Oh, great. They’ll think I want to rape them.”

“Was your mind that sick when _you_ were five?” She was so quiet and red-faced that Dean had to crack a grin. “We’re having sex after all this.”

“In your dreams, cowboy.”

But, she did what he said. Took the sleep-eyed kids and made a beeline for the upstairs room. Seemed safer, if their little intruder was knocking on doors down at ground level, then he wouldn’t be able to climb any walls without Sam and Dean noticing.

Sam…

Dean headed through the kitchen and out the back door. The porch was small and wet. Broken bird-feeder there, dead brown grass over there, chain-link fence nearby, a totaled tricycle, no Sammy. Not much that could make Dean’s heart speed up. Where’s Sammy? Dean’s heart was speeding up.

“Sam!” He was spinning in a damn circle, almost tripped coming off the porch. “Sam!”

Hand on his shoulder, hand over his mouth. Obviously Sam. Dean knew every curve.

“Shut the hell up,” Sam half-whispered into his ear.

Dean was just plain relieved. He actually twisted around and hugged Sam. Really hugged him. Told him stupid things, never to scare him like that again, what would he do if—

Another knock. Same place, same rhythm, other side of the house.

They didn’t have to speak or motion to each other at all, just circled the house, crouching low, scooting sideways between the wall and the jangly fence.

Front door, right over there, all by itself. Dean reached into his jacket to touch the cool exterior of his gun. Made him feel in control of this whole damned bizarre situation. His gaze switched to the roof but there was no one there either. Jesus Christ.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” he burst out.

Sam glared at him like starvation in Africa was all his fault. Dean just pulled the door open in response and waved Sam inside.

The second they made it past the entryway, the phone rang.

“…And there it is,” said Dean.

Straight for the kitchen, don’t look back, don’t step on the plastic Transformer. The ceiling felt even lower than before.

Sam slipped his own gun out of his jacket as Dean picked the phone off the wall. Nice and easy, nothin’ to worry about. This was a good thing. Meant the monster was coming to them. Jo had the kids. They’d make this, they’d do this. _Sam leaning in, his breath down Dean’s neck._

“You happy with your job?” The voice was clear as anything. Didn’t sound like it was coming across a wire. No static, just warm vibrations through Dean’s eardrums.

“Are you?” Dean decided to humor it, yep.

“Where’s Daddy?”

“You’d better come out where I can see ya, bastard. Be a man.”

“How old are you?”

Dean walked as far as the stupid cord would allow, flipping up the blinds of a small window to look out there. Chain-link fence, brick wall of the next house over. “…Not tellin’ you that. Stranger danger.”

Glass shattered, Dean could hear it. The sound sliced through his head. He spun around, saw the lump on the floor, bloody lump—bloody hand?—bloody hand, ragged edges, lined, calloused, the words KEEP CLOSE streaked across it in thin, blackish red.

Sam stepped closer to Dean, aimed, shot at the window. The bullet rocketed out into the night, but it didn’t hit anything, that was obvious.

“Where’s your little brother?”

The voice almost made Dean jump, and Dean never jumped. He put the phone right against his mouth. “Where’re _you,_ you son of a bitch?”

“Right behind you. Right in front of you. Right above you. Right under you.”

“I’m not into riddles.” Dean was gripping his gun, ready.

Jo was gripping her gun too—Jo?

“Jo! Get back up there with the kids, what the hell’re you doing?”

“I’m helping you.” She cocked her gun, aiming where Sammy was aiming. Her distance was better, though, she was closer to the window, brave as hell.

“Where’s your little brother? You fucking him into the ground?”

Dean’s breath almost stopped. The voice pounded into his head.

“Are you stripping him down? What’s your father th—“

Dean smashed the phone onto the receiver. Might’ve broke it, didn’t care.

Sam stared, stared, stared. Jo shoved them both aside and took up the phone, screaming, “Hello?!”

There was this chasm of a pause.

“…Have you checked on the kids?”

The phone made a sharp noise when it hit the tile. They stumbled over each other getting out of that kitchen and up those stairs. Those stairs seemed to make waves beneath their feet, keeping them from the top, from the landing, from the damned bedroom, damned monster, come out, come out, wherever you are.

He was right fucking there. The door was wide open. No clown wallpaper. Little Jimmy torn to ribbons, red, red ribbons, guts split, hooked, curling on the floor. Kid over there, jelly-mouth wide and screaming—maybe screaming? Everything was on mute.

That thing, it was faceless—smooth-as-wine skin, nice and olive. Ugly jagged crayon lines where a mouth, nose, eyes should’ve been. Fingers dripping wet blood. He had a hat, he had a coat. He had shined shoes.

Three bullets shot out at him, but he moved fast as hell. Four more bullets, Jo and Sam combined. Dean just standing there knowing it ain’t gonna work.

That thing was clawing onto the ceiling, clawing onto the floor, the wall, the other wall. Get the kid.

“Get the kid!” Dean yelled, and Jo dove for him, shielded him as that thing sprang by her. Jelly-Face just kept on screaming.

That thing was walking casually over to Dean and Sam—Sam, still shooting bullets. That thing going left, going right, effortless. Never stopped moving.

_Question and answer, question and answer._ Another bullet, another dodge. _You fucking him to the ground? You stripping him down?_ Another bullet. Never stop till he gets an answer. He’s right in front of you.

Dean took one step in front of Sam, arm out, gun up. “…No.”

That thing paused for a fraction of a second and Dean took the shot in less than that. Bullet straight to the bare forehead.

That thing came down like a London bridge. Sank into the carpet like it was never even there.

 

The neighborhood was pretty damn quiet, but the sirens, the police, the whole shebang—it’d all happen in less than ten minutes. Dean, Sam and Jo were doing their best at keeping their heads down. Look nondescript, that should do the trick. Not for long, though, Dean knew that like the back of his hand.

“We’re getting out of this town,” he said.

“What happens if our parents come back and find us gone, huh?” Jo sounded testy, worse than usual.

“This was _your_ idea, sweetheart,” he said, bitingly.

“Never call me that again.” Dead serious. She was dead serious. He wanted to stop, turn her around, grip her shoulders, talk to her face to face, but nope, they had to keep moving.

“We’re getting out of here. We’ll call ‘em from the next town. If that lady sees the blood, the dead kid, _everything,_ she’s gonna come straight to us. The monster’s body? Gone. We couldn’t blame it if we wanted to.”

Sam spoke up. “The kid was there. He could tell them it wasn’t us.”

“You know what the kid’s gonna tell them, Sam? A monster did it. You know what the police’re gonna say to that? ‘My ass it did.’”

So, they had to take a bus. Dean actually got his way for once.

 

Jo was in the front row, as far away from them as possible. There were only two other people in the bus, jostling along with them. Everything looked too bright and artificial in there for some reason. Everything outside was a stark contrast made of black grit. But Dean could see his reflection real easily in the window. He put his forehead to the glass and breathed on it.

Sam was on the other side of the bench practically. Maybe he didn’t wanna be near Dean either. Whole world ganging up on one guy? Hardly fair. But Sammy just looked tired maybe. Jo? Jo was super pissed. Every little movement screamed just that. Dean didn’t know if it was because their hunt backfired or because of what the monster said on the phone. Did anyone hear that but him? He couldn’t even think about it. Didn’t want to make his head hurt worse.

Sam yawned.

“Get some sleep.” Dean didn’t look away from the window. His lips’d brushed the glass when he’d said the words. That glass was like tangy ice.

_Sam was shifting, spreading out his long legs. Put his head on Dean’s lap like it was the most normal thing in the world to do. Dean let his fingers rake through Sam’s hair a few times._

“Sammy?”

“Mmm.”

“Sorry you had to see that. That kid, man…he shouldn’t’ve died. I’m sorry your first hunt without Dad had to end like crap.”

“It was _our_ first hunt without Dad. Not just mine.” _Sam’s weight was so familiar to Dean. The fringes of the world looked filmy. Silver, gray, rusty, red smoothing together._ “And it sucked for both of us, not just me. It sucked for Jo too.”

“Never said it didn’t.” _Sammy was just the most important thing to Dean. How he felt was most important. Was that sick or not?_

“Sam.”

“Yeah, Dean.”

“You could hear everything that bastard said on the phone, couldn’t you?”

“…Yeah, Dean.”

Swallow, look out the window again, let it all come into focus. Crying’s made for chicks, crying’s made for losers. “Why dontcha sit up there and keep Jo company?”

Sam just sighed and said absolutely nothing, so Dean didn’t push it. Sam could be such a stubborn son of a bitch.

The rain was kind of visible under certain streetlamps. The bus stopped twice but only one more passenger got on. He was a head and hands poking out of this big ole puffy jacket that squished when he sat in the seat.

The bus jerked to a start again, and Sam said, “What’ll you say to Dad?”

“That the hunt went sour.”

“You’ll tell him it was your fault.”

“’Course.”

“Well, don’t. Me and Jo—let us take responsibility for once.”

“I was the one in charge, Sammy.” They should’ve been talking loudly. They always talked real loudly when they had those kind of conversations, but it was all soft. Hard to tell if they were truly angry at all. “I was in charge, so it’s my fault.”

“…It’s Sam.”

“What?”

“Stop calling me Sammy.”

Dean would’ve laughed if it didn’t hurt so much. Laughing was too strong of an emotion, and it would’ve led to crying. “Yeah, I guess you hate me now, so. Okay. Sam.”

Sam sat up. “Hate you?”

“Just shut up, Sam.”

“I’ll always hate you, but I’ll never _hate_ you.”

‘Cause they were family. Sam was all Dean had and Dean was all Sam had. They had their father, yeah, but on those late nights, with 7-Eleven brownies and lame-ass TV shows, Sam was all he had. Was that sick or not?

“I’ll tell Dad what really happened,” Sam said. “Every detail. No lies.”

Dean shifted away from the window to look Sam in the eye for the first time since they boarded the damn bus. All he could see in his brother was honesty, loyalty, crap like that. Things they couldn’t lose, even if they lost everything else. Even if everything else about Dean was sick, it was hard to believe that caring about someone like Sam qualified. Dean didn’t believe it. He just couldn’t anymore.

And Dean was hugging Sam for the second time that night. Stupid chick flick moment. But it didn’t just feel safe, like being with Jo did. It felt like home, pretty much. Like the Impala on a back road, AC/DC blaring, Dad on the phone with Bobby, talking about some case. Sam behind him with a book, wearing a hooded sweatshirt, acting like a know-it-all.

When Dean stopped hugging his kid brother to look at him, he could hear Sam’s thoughts from a mile away. He didn’t see complete honestly that time, ‘cause he could see Sam wanting to kiss him but holding back for the moment. Poor Sammy was asking himself, was that sick or not? And it was somethin’ neither of them could tell Dad, and maybe that was why on those late nights, they would allow themselves to have Starbucks brownies and lame-ass TV shows and a motel bed all to themselves.

Dean leaned back in the seat, bored of that window over there.

“We’re gonna have to get breakfast in the morning. Not gonna let you starve.”

“You’re just saying that because _you_ want breakfast.”

“I’m thinking pie.”

“I thought you said _breakfast.”_

“I did.”

“Pie for breakfast?”

“Pie all the time, Sammy.” He expected Sam to correct him for the name thing, and Sam did, but Dean managed to really laugh that time.


End file.
